


A Reason For Why I Ended Things

by flaccid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Sad, it is pretty sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:40:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaccid/pseuds/flaccid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>I didn't leave you this out of spite. </p>
  <p>Nor did I have any intent on writing this to hurt your feelings in anyway.</p>
  <p>Having left things so ratted and poorly stitched, I figured you deserved a reason for all of this. </p>
  <p>A reason for why I'd ended things. </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off of Daniel Handler's Why We Broke Up. All rights reserved for his original idea, this is simply a play off of it.

There is an old moving box labeled fragile, placed on the bench in which we shared out first kiss.

 

The bench with rotting wood, waterlogged and still damp from previous rain and the lake sloshing during windy storms. Set upon the makeshift sandbar, with the sand sticking between your toes and nails, but the deeper you dug your feet in the warmer they were.

 

Trees are close by to it, and there is the tree with our names carved into a heart, like a cliché film but I won't chop it down in a scorned rage and I hope you won't either.

 

You could ignore this; rip it to pieces and pretend it was never sent, and your hands never touched it, your pupils never grazed across them in their glossy state, and your mind didn't read the words in my voice.

 

I hope you don't, and I know you won't, Louis. You're persistent. Never fail to get your way, and try so hard to have things go orderly, in a frame that has no cracks and holds the picture up perfectly.

 

That's one reason why we broke up.

 

Because I'm a frame, Louis, and I'm a frame incapable of no cracks.

 

If you decide to continue (and I know you will), the rest of this autobiography of our odd relationship, and all the reasons that I slowly fell out of love with you, compared to how quickly I fell in love with you, the rest will be in the box.

 

I won't end this with the ever so "romantic" and overused line, "It's not you, it's me" because it most certainly was you, but it was me too and I'm willing to admit that.

 

I'll admit that because I loved you, I really fucking loved you.

 

Just not anymore.   


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again this is based off of Why We Broke Up By Daniel Handler and I am in no way taking credit for the original idea.

  
**If you have this, congrats, you haven't completely given up on me** and for that I commemorate you.

In this box are 12 things - like the Christmas tune - and each of those things are pieces of our relationship that I've finally found in my heart to give up. 

An empty cigarette carton.

€ 2

A dog tag with your name engraved. 

Two shirts from The Fray Concert. 

A nearly spent candle. 

A condom (don't let your mother see).

Your glasses.

A shot glass.

A small snow globe. 

A pair of headphones.

An unopened pack of gum.

And last but not least.

A pair of your boxers.

 

Now I won't necessarily be depicting them in that order , but right now it's 2 in the morning and I'm wired on cheap coffee that splashes a bitter taste amongst my tongue. So I'm really writing this from what I see splayed out on the desk that my elbows are popped up onto from time to time, and the one your cute little butt used to plop against. 

Let's start from the beginning shall we?

 

Pick up the wrinkly €2. 

Run your fingers over them, feel the soft wrinkles that were once bunched between my fretted fingers, then shoved into the tight confinements of my skinny jean pockets. 

Remember how I got them?

Of course you don't. You don't hold onto the little things, which is yet another reason why I ended it with you. Why I fell out of love. 

That particular day had already been shitty. The rain patters roughly against the roof of my house and thunder rumbles gently in the distance, like a murmur of soft hums. Clouds a dark grey, shifting through the sky at an alarming rate but not enough to have any severe weather warnings. 

I'd just returned from school. Clothes sodden with little droplets of water clinging to me desperately, having me feel more weighed down than the book bag I carry hitched on my shoulder. Undoubtedly, all the contents in the cheap material encasement were as drenched as my thin hoodie.

Just as I had begun to peel it away from my body, my mother tumbles in from the kitchen, stray powder coating her arms and a frantic look on her face that had her eyes blown wide. She looks at me like I was the best gift in the world, sent from the gods to make her life so much easier and better. Hairs adherent to her forehead, and one hand coming to press them away before distinctly remembering the powder, and letting out a far from languid sigh. 

"Please, Harry, be my precious boy and run to the store for some milk?" 

"But mom it's-"

"I know," she spoke quickly, dusting her hands off against the sweatpants hanging from her hips then reaching for her purse hanging on the knob of the door. "I know, and I feel terrible for asking this of you, but please, for the love of your Nan, do this one thing for me and you won't have to set the table for dinner."

"Is Robin coming over?" To this she nods hastily.

You see around this time things were still steady, and slow between the two of them. A good while before he'd proposed to her after gathering my and Gemma's blessings. So every time he'd come 'round, though they'd been together for such a long time, my mother goes on overdrive. Similar to you when I gave you your first espresso, then immediately regretted it.

Shoving a twenty in my hand (though for some milk, it wouldn't near be as much) she leans forward to press a kiss on my cheek and pats me on my way back out the door. There really had been no point in getting another hoodie I suppose, but I kind of think that's part of the reason you'd offer to let me ride with you later on. 

Because I was wet, and leaving water tracks having walked to and fro school, and now here, since w e hadn't enough money to invest both Gemma and I in a car. Since Gemma was older she won by default, and though I envy her for it, the thought doesn't eat away at me like a sibling rivalry usually would. 

You offered let me ride with you, because I looked like a project you could fix, Louis.

But I was no project then, and I am no project now.

The walk wasn't to bad - to the store that is - but the rain kept hitting me in my eye, and they were already squinted in attempts to keep my vision at least somewhat clear through the downpour. My nose felt runny, and I constantly had to rub away snot from my upper lip which is not the best at all. 

When I'd made it there, I was angry. I was angry at Gemma for getting the car, angry at my mom for making me go to the store during this type of weather and not offering me her nice and warm sedan, angry at my father for leaving us and making money so tight. 

I was just a bitter mess of anger.

Seconds away from tears, my heels scrape against the rough surface of the rug so I could prevent any embarrassing slips that would surely have salty tears running down my cheeks.

So I do the one thing that would make me smile, or at least half way smile, and it was a way of avoiding anymore contact with the rain.

The phone rang once, then twice, then a third time, before she picked up on the other end. 

"Harry Edward Styles," Olivia began, mocking a motherly tone. Like the one your mother would use when you left dirty socks lying around, or shirts, or shoes, or boxers, or hats..the whole lot of your closet really. "You better have a fantastic reason why you're calling me before Will Hayes gets to the story of April."

"You've literally watched that movie a million times."

"And I'm literally going to be pissed if you do not give me a reason for calling Mr. Styrish." 

And she says the nickname which makes me smile.

I know you already know, that Olivia and I were best friends, but I never told you of the trip we took to Ireland in grade 9.

We went to Mullingar with our families, but most of the time we were tucked away in this Irish lad's tree house, made with old oak and rusting nails, smelling of the fresh spring and flowers blooming in the overly green yard. There he taught us all sorts of things, like Irish slang and jigs. 

He went by the name of Niall, with hair soft brown tousles atop his head, and an accent thicker than homemade butter. His nails were bitten short, and he wasn't anywhere near stocky or burly for his age. Skin soft, cheeks rosy, looking a little younger than he actually was, and Olivia was in love with him for that portion of time. 

Well, sometime after, once we got back, I had the nasty accent habit. You know when you've been around someone for a long while, and their words become your words, and their tone slips easily off your tone, and spirals you into someone almost completely different.

Maybe that's why you refrained from talking to Olivia often, because she used large words, and you said frequently that you "weren't about that life." Which I told Olivia and she said it was, "Guileless idiocy at it's very finest." 

Anyway, the nickname came because of that, on one particularly sunny day with puddles still surrounding us from the rain before, Olivia and I sat in two separate trolleys eating sandwiches and chips. My tone came out rather Irish sounding, and she told me sardonically to "Calm down, Mr. Styrish"

 

But back to the grocery store instead of my pleasant memory, I answer slowly, 

"I need a ride from the Mini Mart off Lexington."

"And what in God's name are you doing there, with no ride, in this particular weather?" 

"My mom needed milk. Robin's coming over tonight." 

"Ah, I see." she utters, mind getting lost in the film for a moment as she mutters something indistinct about Ryan Reynolds beneath her breath. "Do you want me to stay 'round? I've got this movie implanted in my brain, I'll just finish it in the middle of dinner. WHICH reminds me, I have a care basket for your mother, and my mom is making meatloaf tonight so, yeah, I'm definitely staying around." 

"Okie doke." I tell her, wincing at the squeaking of my shoes against the floor despite my efforts of drying them. "Do you want anything while I'm at the store?"

"Pounds and pounds of chocolates." she says muffly, which means she's pulling a hoodie over her head, "Cramps are a sure bitch, but the cravings get worse every time."

"Liv, I asked if you wanted anything not a synopsis of your.....womanly troubles." 

"And I wanted to watch Ryan Reynolds tell his daughter and not pick up your pasty little booty from the Mini Mart, so I suppose we're even. I'm on my way, look alive and simmer down young one."

She hung up before I could come back with a line of my own, and I find my eyes grazing across each brand of milk. My mother usually gets the ones with the blue top, so I reach for those before a hand his placed on my drenched, red hoodie sleeve. Burning a mark into my skin, and warming that portion even though I shudder from the chilly air. 

It was you, Louis. 

"I wouldn't do that," you say cautiously to me, "That milk's said to be rotten. They don't get a new shipment in till tomorrow, do to the equally rotten weather."

Your voice was unlike one I'd heard before, and when I turn to meet your gaze I want to pass out on the ground. Cerulean blue eyes, staring like pools of never ending irises that I could dive into and swim around freely in. 

It hadn't been the first time I'd seen you, no, but it was the first time I saw you without a girl on your side or a posse of narcissistic jack asses crowding around you. 

I wish I could say in that moment I understood all of Shakespeare's poetry, all of the romance novels cheesy, cliché literacy and intricacy with plots and romanticizing every aspect of everything.

I wish I could say I understood why the birds chirp happily, why the worms delve themselves in moist dirt during spring, why Olivia has the most impeccable feelings for baby kittens.

I wish I could say I did.

But really, the only burning, life altering, realization I had was— 

Holy shit, he's touching my arm.

But that fazed you none, Louis. Your hand on my forearm, and your prizewinning smile telling me dairy facts I couldn't care any lesser about, but it didn't seem life altering to you.

And that's another reason, why we broke up.

We walk to the sweets isle together, as if we came there together, and for a moment I pretend we do. That we struck a sweet tooth while our legs were intertwined with one another's, nuzzling into your chest as I murmur how delicious sweets sound, and you erupt with joy that you were thinking the same thing, and we were most definitely going to get some. 

But in all reality, you were here for your girlfriend, and I was here for my best friend, whose period was causing her trouble. 

I knew I was attracted to some boys, but never have I ever been as attracted to someone as I was to you. Everything about you just illuminated something great; something fantastic and note taking worthy. Your eyes a electric shade of blue, and teeth a dazzling white that had your smile eccentric. Everything about that smile, and that face, and that body of yours, had me blushing.

Though to you, I was nothing but the curly headed boy, with a curly haired friend at the end of the isle, about to call out for me but seeing I was with you. Slowly I see as Olivia backs away, pressing herself flush against the case and listening in as you recommend different chocolates to me, and explain how your girlfriend was "on the rag" as well.

"She's not my girlfriend." I reply hesitantly, reaching out for a large bag of toffees.

You make a noise, with your lips shut together, and it sounds like a spit, "Please," you clap your hand onto my shoulder, and it makes droplets of water fly everywhere, "Everyone thinks you're secretly doing it, no reason to hide it from me. I won't tell." 

I swear to you, I hear Olivia scoffing in the distance, and the clap of her hand over her mouth.

"Is that all your getting?" I questioned, motion towards the small bag of chocolates you held.

"Yeah." 

"I'll pay for you."

"What no-"

"The least I could do. You saved me from buying sour milk." I snatch the treats from your grasp and rush to the counter, hearing your feet pad behind me. 

And I pay for them quickly, your complaints becoming less and less frequent. 

When I hand them to you, you shove the 2 pieces of paper into my hands, and take a few steps back so I couldn't return them. 

"That completely defeats the purpose of me buying you something." I say exasperatedly, and you rolled those two lovely eyes, with a smile tugging at your pale pink lips. 

"I don't like owing people."

"You wouldn't have to-"

"Shh." Your hand cupped over my mouth, and my face flushes. "Now do you need a ride back to your house, because from the looks of it you've walked."

But I couldn't talk, and I stare dumbfounded at you once again because — shit he's touching me.....again — and I hear the jingle of Olivia's keys. 

"Actually that's why I'm here." she saves, noticing my state of need and molding it into something less awkward.

"All good then?" I nodded, "Alright! See you two around."

 

With this you left, and I stand with my fingers grazing over my lips that your hand had just touched. 

"Is that all your getting?" Olivia mocked my voice, sniggering, and I pushed her playfully, replaying the recent moments in my head like they were my favorite record..

"Oh, shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to know your thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts, yeah.


End file.
